


Arizona

by seperis



Series: The Atlantis Project [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-09
Updated: 2005-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-04 12:48:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe it's just the movies that have given him an unrealistic expectation of assassins, but unless this guy's the most incompetent assassin *ever*--and considering who Rodney McKay is, they wouldn't hire someone *dumb* would they?--really, Rodney should be dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arizona

**Author's Note:**

> No excuse whatsoever. Shame is so very last decade. Love to Celli, Cjandre, and chopchica for prereading and encouragement. Now I go to breathe in a paper bag, cause huh. This wasn't on my wip list because before eleven last night? It didn't *exist*. Because Celli sells very, very bad crack.

His life can't possibly get worse. Literally. "You were sent here to kill me, weren't you?"

And it figures, because the universe sucks, that the guy slouching at the foot of his bed with a gun smiles at him, bright and charming.

Charming, if you ignored the entire *cold blooded murder* thing. 

"Well, Rodney--McKay, right?"

Like denial is going to get him out of this. Well. "Would you believe me if I said no?"

Apparently not, as a silencer is being casually screwed on the barrel of the gun. "Not really, no." Reaching into a pocket blindly, he pulls up Rodney's old security photo, and Rodney's not sure what's more depressing: that he's going to die, or he's actually gained weight since his hasty--and let it be said, brilliant--flight from the government.

The American government, that is, but Rodney's not sparing much sympathy for Canada, what with the revocation of his passport and, oh yeah, *totally* illegal withdrawal of his citizenship. 

Bastards. "Okay, I can pay you twice what you're getting for this."

From the foot of the bed, the guy looks up, another slow, charming smile, the kind usually associated with iced tea on Southern porches in seventies movies involving faded Southern belles, or something. Rodney doesn't watch a lot of adaptations of Tennessee Williams.

"You don't know what I'm getting for this."

Rodney wishes desperately for pants, and of all the things he could be thinking about, it would be the fact that yes, he's going to die, and in a crappy hotel room in the boondocks of Arizona, and without his pants.

"I can still double it."

The guy's head tilts. "What if I don't do it for the money?"

Well, what the hell? "What, for the spirit of adventure? The joy of killing? The fun of sweating in a non-air-conditioned room in July in the *desert*? And how the hell can you be still wearing that coat?"

The assassin frowns, glancing down, like it just occurred to him that the entire pseudo-Matrix look only works in cold climates. And the movies. Reaching up with his free hand, he slides down the sunglasses, revealing curious hazel eyes. 

Rodney has always had a weakness for pretty eyes. Ruthlessly, he suppresses it. Since he's about to *die*. "I can pay you triple."

Slowly, the man removes his glasses, crossing his legs neatly at the ankles and dropping casually back on one arm. The gun, Rodney notes, does not move from its aim directly at Rodney's heart. "From what I understand, Rodney--I can call you Rodney, right?--and from the look of this place? You don't actually have access to a lot of money. Or say, any."

Rodney grits his teeth. "I can get money. I can get you--wait." It hits him that he's awake, not, say, bleeding out into this smelly mattress with protruding springs. "Why am I not dead yet?" Maybe it's just the movies that have given him an unrealistic expectation of assassins, but unless this guy's the most incompetent assassin *ever*--and considering who Rodney McKay is, they wouldn't hire someone *dumb* would they?--really, Rodney should be dead.

The guy frowns, looking down, like Rodney caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. "Well. I could be trying to get information. To blackmail someone with."

"Except you haven't actually asked me any questions." The gun still isn't moving, but on the other hand, neither have any, say, bullets. 

The guy sighs, straightening to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Right. Yeah, this isn't how it was supposed to go. In and out, no biggie. But." The hazel eyes dart back up, amused again. This is just so *weird*. Even for Rodney's life, what with the international running and hiding, the near-deaths, and the horrible, horrible mattresses he has to cope with that are just killing his back. "I was thinking."

"You can *think*?"

The guy's eyes narrow. "I still have a gun."

"And yet you aren't using it." Oh God, they sent an *incompetent assassin* after him. This is just too much. It's not enough he's been expatriated from his own country and two governments are hunting him, it's not enough that the carpet is *orange* and the detergent on these sheets is giving him a *rash*, and it's not enough that there's no air conditioning, he's in the desert, the radiation levels are insane, and he's so going to sunburn the second he peers out the door. Oh no. He's been caught by a *bad assassin*.

The guy sighs, and Rodney watches the gun turn away, resting on one lean thigh. "This isn't going like I thought it would." The narrowed eyes turn back to Rodney. "Couldn't you just, be a little grateful? Seriously. I was going to *kill you* and changed my mind out of the kindness of my heart."

An incompetent, *romantic* assassin. "My God. This is unbelievable." Jerking the blankets back, he glances down, and yes, rash, just *great*. "Is this like, your virgin night or something?"

Rodney's never seen anyone turn that color before. "My *what*?"

Standing up, Rodney waves a hand. "You know. First time you've killed someone. I mean, I guess the coat should have tipped me off--" The guy looks down again, then back up, eyes wide. "--and the entire sunglasses inside thing, but seriously--"

"I've killed people." He sounds offended. "A lot of people. More than I can *count* and--where are you going?"

Rodney jerks open his suitcase, staring sadly at the limited selection of winterwear available. .He hadn't actually meant to end up in the desert, after all. "Getting dressed so I can make a daring escape. Before someone *competent* comes after me."

Jerking the only non-sweater shirt he owns over his head, Rodney turns around with his jeans to see the guy staring at him with a familiar expression of blank incredulity. It's exceedingly familiar, and very, very annoying. "What?"

The guy's mouth snaps shut. "I'm not sure yet." He blinks a couple of times, and then frowns. "Where are you going to go?"

"Like I'm going to tell you? You'll just tell your competent assassin friends!"

"I will *not*." And God help them all, he's almost *pouting*. Who the hell hired this guy? And *why*? "I'm *sparing your life*." Running his hand through his hair--which doesn't improve the mess it's already in--he glares at Rodney, like *he's* the problem here. "And hey, here's a thought. It only took me *two days* to track you here. If I'm incompetent, then how long do you think it'll take someone *competent* to find you?"

Wow, good question. Rodney steps into his jeans, trying to work out where it would be expected he'd go, where he should go, where he needs to be, and most important of all, where on earth he's going to get decent coffee, because one more cup out of a machine and he'll be homicidal. Suicidal. Some cidal thing. "I'll figure something out." Because that's worked well so far, his mind offers up helpfully. Exhibit A--the *bad* assassins are stumbling over him. 

"I kind of destroyed your car," the guy says helpfully, back to the oh-so-casual slouch and looking way too amused. "To prevent your escape."

Rodney glares at him. Walking in the desert. Just what he was looking forward to. "God, I'm supposed to escape on *foot*?" This is sucking beyond the telling of it. Tossing his few items into his bag, Rodney zips it up, grabbing his laptop and shoving it into his backpack. "And also, fuck. We're in the middle of a *desert*. How the hell am I supposed to escape now?"

The silence from the bed seems to be of a different quality, and Rodney feels a strange sense of doom as he turns around. No gun pointed at his chest, just a dangerously charming smile, wide eyes, and a set of car keys dangling from two fingers, flashing as they twirl in the dim light from the lamp. "I might have an idea, Rodney."

* * *

His name is John--either the worst fake name ever for an incompetent assassin, or really, really traditional parents--and he drive a Lamborghini Diablo.

"Of course you drive something *guaranteed to get attention*." Rodney pretends that the car isn't as hot as it really is, because God, he may know shit about cars, but wow. "What, is this your fall back career after male model or something?"

John gives him an irritated glance from the corner of his eye, but at least he's shed the black trench coat. Good and bad there; John's hot in the coat, but in just a black t-shirt--could he *be more clichéd*?--he's something out of really, really good porn. Long fingers tighten on the wheel, and his mouth does that pouting thing again. It's unreasonably fascinating. "Okay, first off? My car. And second--beggars can't be choosers. And third--Christ, you were in a ninety-four *Taurus*. Judge not lest ye be judged and all that shit. You're lucky that thing didn't leave an oil trail for me to follow."

"I was *running for my life*, so sorry it doesn't live up to your expectations!" Clutching his laptop--and carefully not looking at the speedometer, because that can only end in tears and acid reflux--Rodney glares at John's profile. "Where are we going?"

"Maybe I'm tricking you into going back to Colorado." He almost sounds like he means it, low and earnest and completely unbelievable.

Rodney rolls his eyes. "Wrong direction. Really, I'm impressed. You managed to actually drop my assessment of you to *kindergarten*. And keep your eyes on the road!"

John's mouth tightens, eyes staring straight ahead. Rodney thinks he hears him murmuring something "so should have just shot him" and "stupid" but he can't bother to keep listening. On the straightaway connecting Arizona to Nevada, there's plenty of time to finish up some work. Opening his laptop, he boots up, flicking past the encryption sequences and breathing a little sigh of relief that everything seems to still be working. Piece of shit Window system. First opportunity, something in ThinkPad and Linux. And some coffee. "Have you seen a truck stop or something yet?"

He doesn't have to look to see John's narrowed eyes. "Yes. The invisible ones only I can see. Dozens of them. We're in the *desert*. Miles from civilization, donuts, coffee, and people who want you dead. Remember?"

For an assassin, he's certainly sensitive. Rodney opens up his notes. There's no way he's going to be able to function long if he doesn't eat something, and soon. "I need coffee. Breakfast. Maybe some pancakes."

It's weird, how he can *hear* John's eyes roll. "Yes. After near-death experiences, I'm always hungry. Think you'll avoid starvation for another twenty miles? There's a place up the highway that we can stop at."

Rodney nods, turning his attention back to the screen. It's not the most comfortable he's ever been, but the Lamborghini's bucket seats are a hell of an improvement over that chiropractic nightmare of a desk in the motel, and hey, he can't complain about the leather, either, or the wonders of air conditioning, set to ice age. John even has Twizzlers in his glove compartment, and Rodney's carefully eating them when John isn't looking. Some people are weird about things like that.

The silence is almost comfortable--John feels no need to fill the car with terrible music or try to carry on conversation, all to the good. Rodney has no problems multitasking, so he can study the long body beside him--Christ, black jeans, even, just *screaming* dangerous character--and Rodney'd roll his eyes, but John's not looking at him and so can't possibly appreciate how very, very unimpressed Rodney is. The dark hair is a mess, and Rodney suspects it's deliberate from the way it seems to defy both gravity and common sense. 

He makes himself not stare too hard at the thigh holster, though. Sent to *kill him*. Right. Not hot at all.

"You know, the all black thing? Is it on purpose or are you colorblind?" Because he's curious now.

John's head snaps around, eyes *definitely* not on the road. "Colorblind?" and Rodney grabs for the steering wheel, because this could be the first time anyone's been *accidentally* killed by a bad assassin in a car accident.

"Eyes on the road! Oh my God, I'm going to die when you aren't even *trying* to kill me!" 

John pushes him away with one hand, still glaring. "What is with you and how I dress?"

Well, *fine*. "The drama factor, huh?"

John blows out a breath. "I was coming after you at *night*. Summer white isn't exactly the way to go. And also, not colorblind." Then the irritated look melts, and Rodney watches the corner of his mouth twitch upward. "You're not anything like I expected," he says, eyes firmly on the road.

"Brilliant, handsome, charismatic, able to convince assassins not to kill me on the sheer strength of my genius?"

John turns abruptly into what appears to be a parking lot for a restaurant, the kind chock full of grease and unhygienic waitresses and *coffee*. "Not that."

They pull into a parking space. Rodney grabs at the door--stupid, weird-opening doors--and hears John turn off the car. "Then what?" Got it. Weird strange-opening and now open door. Coffee, a few feet and a barked order away. *Pancakes*.

John's voice is lightly conversational when he says, "I don't know. I guess I thought the former head of the Atlantis Project would be a little better at covering his tracks."

* * *

It takes Rodney six cups of coffee--finally, the waitress just brought him a pot and left it at the table--before he can find words. Way after plausible deniability would have worked, so he wonders why he's even bothering. "I have no idea--"

"Theoretical physicist." John, across the cheap linoleum table, just looks amused now. "And according to government records--of two countries--you don't even exist. And your programming skills suck, if that cute little Cayman Islands fund exchange you did two months ago is anything to go by, though granted, I understand you were in a little bit of a rush."

The coffee is terrible. It could be easily improved by, say, vodka. "I--" No one knows about the Atlantis project outside that small group in Colorado. Which means that--oh, God. "You're government, aren't you?" He's not going to die. He's going to be taken *into custody*. Rodney's hands clench around his cup.

John rolls his eyes, picking up his second cup of coffee. Too much cream and sugar, in Rodney's opinion, the little white packets forming a tiny paper drift between them like snow. "They don't actually want you dead. They'd prefer it, but that's just because they're still clinging to the hope your second--Kavan something?--can recreate your work."

Rodney takes another long drink. Vodka, yes. Or cyanide, maybe. "You're taking me in, aren't you?" Nevada has the right labs in the bases. Hell, if there's one thing that Rodney's learned, it's that everywhere has bases. 

For some reason, his hands start to shake, and he carefully sets the coffee cup down before John can see it. There are a lot of ways to get information that don't involve threatening someone's life. He can probably stand up to a gun. But he's not so sure he can stand up to the things that aren't guns.

"I'm not government, so no. Just a for-hire." John gazes at him steadily over his cup of coffee. "And I didn't take this job for the money."

Oh.

"I won't give you the access codes. Or my notes. Or--" Well, he can *take them*, why the hell else would he wait? There's no way anyone but Rodney could get into his laptop. He should have destroyed the information there, too. Hindsight. Fuck. "Not anything." He doesn't think his voice is shaking, but then, he can barely hear himself over the roar in his ears. 

John cocks his head. "There are a lot of countries, and a lot of people, who would pay top dollar for what you know."

Rodney forces his hands flat on the table. "Trust me, I know." God, does he know. "You--you have to know what this could do, if you know what the Atlantis project is. If it fell into the wrong hands. If it fell into any hands."

"Once something's been discovered," John says slowly, almost gently, "it can't be undone. Someone's going to figure out how to recreate your work."

"Only if they have enough to rebuild with. And they don't." He'd wiped every computer, disassembled everything he could find, burned whatever that would burn before leaving. Sometimes, he wonders if they'll ever be able to rebuild the Cheyenne base. "And John--I can call you John, right, not *idiot*?--they don't have anyone even *close* to my level of expertise." He stops, taking a breath. His mouth is almost painfully dry. "What are you going to do?"

John's eyes flicker over Rodney's shoulder, blinking and fixing with an intensity that makes Rodney turn around, too. On the small television fixed over the counter, Rodney sees last night's motel blazing on the screen, and the tickertape beneath. It's too loud to hear, but not too far to see. Mysterious fire. Unknown arsonist.

That happens a lot around him.

"Well." Jerking his gaze back to John, Rodney watches as he sets down his coffee cup, slouching into the shiny vinyl seats like an overstuffed couch, head tilted, a ghost of a smile curving up one corner of his mouth. "I was thinking that I might just try and keep you alive."

* * *

They're on the road again, armed with a bag of take-out for lunch in what passes for a backseat and somehow, John charmed a thermos out of the waitress, so Rodney's armed with coffee now, and absolutely no idea what he's supposed to do.

"You know," Rodney says slowly, because the silence now is just too weird to keep up, "I don't actually think my charisma is what's keeping your trigger finger from being itchy. What are you doing?"

John smiles, all nonchalant brightness, like this is a *road trip* for God's sake. "Do you care, if I'm keeping you alive, caffeinated, and out of small cells with many very motivated individuals who want to know what you know?"

"I'm supposed to think you're doing this from the goodness of your heart?"

John's smile widens, all even white teeth, like a toothpaste commercial. "Why not?"

There is so much wrong with this exchange that Rodney can't even start to work it out. "You're keeping me to sell me to the highest bidder, aren't you?" He's seen this in the movies, too, and Rodney's head dances with visions of Chinese cells or back to that Siberian nightmare but added bonus of less groveling and more threats against his person. "Because I've seen this--"

"You watch too much TV." John flicks his sunglasses down for another fast smile, but at least this time he keeps his eyes on the road. Shifting smoothly into fifth, they start hitting speeds that Rodney's almost sure are illegal, and great, death by accident or capture by *speeding ticket*, which annoys him more? "Just relax. Take a nap or something."

Take a *nap*? "You have *got* to be kidding me. I go to sleep, I wake up in a--a locked room or something. Tied up to a bed. Begging for my life or--being tortured for information."

John's head turns, tilting his head enough for Rodney to see his eyes. "Wow."

"Fine, mock my terror. You are the worst--"

"Assassin ever, yeah, heard that one already." Turning back to the road before Rodney's heart can stop again, he cocks his head. "Come on. If I was going to kill you, you would be dead. If I was going to sell you, I've already done it and whether you nap or not, there's really not much you can do about it. If I'm doing what I'm telling you I'm doing, then being well-rested can only be to the good, right?"

It's annoying that he's probably right. "Maybe you just want to steal my notes."

John snickers. "Thought, genius--can anyone but you even *read* your notes, much less understand them? No, they'd be useless without the author. Seriously, shut up and sleep. You get cranky when you're sleep deprived."

Rodney jerks straight--well, as straight as he can in this kind of seat. "What would you know about--?"

"I read your file," John says with extreme unconcern, and damned if he isn't slouching again, though how that's even possible Rodney has no idea. "Know the subject and all that."

"Right." Stupid disturbingly thorough FBI and military files. Squinting out into the endless stretches of the most boring terrain in creation, Rodney considers the man beside him. "You know, I didn't know they give hired assassins so much information." Do they? It's not like Rodney spends a lot of time hanging out with the criminal element, after all.

The car starts climbing in speed again, and Rodney closes his eyes. A nap would be infinitely preferable to watching his own death by speed-related accident, no question.

And the bastard probably *knows* that.

* * *

They don't stop again until well after dusk, and Rodney's way too tired to care if the transaction going on at the front desk is actually negotiations for his capture, because just inside the door directly facing the car is a mattress, and while it may be a sucky, sucky mattress, it won't be this godforsaken seat and it won't be trying to break Mach One on the strength of one man's lead foot.

John comes back with a key, whistling, and eating a bag of Doritos, which is probably the most unfair thing about this night to date. Getting out, Rodney slams--or tries to slam--the door closed and reaches for the chips, snagging the bag as John starts to unlock the door.

John frowns. "Hey--"

"Starving me to death is still killing me," Rodney says, shaking the bag to check for quantity, then reaching inside for as much of a handful as he can get and stuffing them in his mouth. Oh God, processed artificial food. Not quite coffee, but God, so close. "Tell me you are planning to get dinner before I expire right here on the doorstep."

John opens the door, and if Rodney could see through the sunglasses, he *knows* John would be rolling his eyes. He's just that kind of a person. "No, I'd much rather listen to your complaints. I'm going to get something to eat, so could you chill and maybe *get inside*? It's hot and we're letting what little air conditioning there is out."

Rodney goes inside, glancing around briefly to take in cheap, particleboard furniture, grey-brown carpet, and what looks like a rat trap. Well, great. "Wonderful place here. Death by *rabies*." Going to the bed, Rodney drops down beside his laptop. Bleach-smelling blankets--yay, another rash!--and painful springs, but still, twenty times better than that *car* after hours and days and possibly *years* in those devil-built seats. Maybe John can spring for something in Cadillac next time if they're going for pretentious cars.

God, *bed*. Rodney rolls onto his back and hears joints he'd never known he owned popping. "God." Eyes opening on the water-stained ceiling, Rodney thinks of just falling asleep, screw dinner and strange bad assassins, wait, wait, is there *just one bed*?

Did he say that out loud?

When he looks up, John's grinning at him from the foot. "Yes, Rodney, there's just one bed."

Rodney lifts himself up on one elbow. "Is that the plan? Trying to seduce secrets out of me? Because--"

"I was wrong," John says solemnly, discarding the sunglasses, finally, because in a dark room at night, sunglasses are just ridiculous. Dark eyebrows arch at him in amusement. "You don't watch too many movies. You just watch too much porn." But he puts a knee on the bed, and Rodney watches the smile flicker away, and God, he's *crawling up the bed* like a big, playful cat, slowly coming up Rodney's body until John's hovering over him, and Rodney finds himself pressed back into the mattress, even though John doesn't touch him at all.

John hovers over him on his hands and knees, and this close, Rodney can see the green flecks in hazel eyes, the rough line of stubble on cheeks and jaw, the way his mouth curls up on one side, like the world's the funniest thing ever and he's always on the edge of laughing at it. Slowly, he leans closer, and Rodney's fingers dig into the covers as John's breath puffs on his lips. "I have to compliment you on your taste in porn, though."

Oh God, oh God, he may be ready to stand up to guns, and okay, hot pinchers or knives or whatever people use these days in their torture places, he might make a good showing, but that soft mouth and sleepy eyes, long, lean body--well, that's a completely different story. A completely different, and completely *pornographic* story, where Rodney's babbling what he shouldn't be babbling but getting kick ass blowjobs in the process.

He can't remember how to breathe.

"But this isn't a porn movie." And like that, John twists to the side, rolling onto his back beside Rodney before slipping gracefully to his feet beside the bed. Grinning. "Anything in particular you want to eat, or should I just guess?"

Rodney blinks slowly. "I--no." John's eyes flicker down, fixing on parts of Rodney that have, against all logic, become highly interested in proceedings, grin widening. Oh God, his bad assassin is *staring at his crotch*. "No--no citrus."

"Allergic. I know." Of course he does. Grabbing his coat, John ambles to the door. "Lock the door behind me. I'll be back in about an hour."

With another sun-bright smile, the cockteasing bastard walks out.

* * *

He must have slept--God knows how--but he comes awake with the cock of a gun beside his ear.

It's not John. Rodney can't explain how he knows, even before he opens his eyes, but he knows.

"Just be a good little scientist and don't move." Rodney stares at the ceiling, feeling the chill of the gun barrel trace a slow line down his chin. "I have some questions."

Licking his lips, Rodney takes a choked breath, fighting the sudden tightness in his chest, not to mention the way that he's never wanted to piss his pants more in his life. Why on earth didn't he go to the bathroom before falling asleep?

"You're pretty valuable dead--but from what I understand, even more valuable alive to some people." The voice is thick against his ear, and Rodney fights the instinct to jerk away. "I'd like to know why."

Licking his lips, Rodney tries to get another full breath. "I won't--" God, he's *squeaking*. Another breath. "I won't tell you anything."

The gun snaps against his jaw, an explosion of pain that almost knocks Rodney out, but he could only *hope* for unconsciousness now. A body is straddling him, jerking one arm over his head, and Rodney's eyes clear enough to see black eyes, a scarred face, and no charming, sunny smile. A flickering sound to his left drags his gaze over, and Rodney sees the flash of a knife.

Oh *fuck*.

"Yes, you will. And you're going to tell me." Using his knee to hold down Rodney's right arm, the man drags down the sleeve of his shirt on his left, setting the knife against the tender skin inside. "Tell me why the American government wants you dead or alive, and at least three other countries want you alive, period--and functioning, but you could function with just one arm, yes?" The tip sinks into the center of his forearm, and Rodney hears himself scream.

It'd be a lot more embarrassing if he could breathe. 

"Tell me what is so special about you," the man says softly, and Rodney's not sure what sound he makes when the man drags the tip down, tearing skin and muscle, blood suddenly sharp and copper in the air. Rodney twists, can't help it, and the knife pushes in deeper. "Tell me or I will remove your arm. You do not need two, do you?"

He says--something. The red copper haze slips over his vision like a cloud, and Rodney knows he's telling things--God, anything that comes to his head, and he hates himself, hates that it's that easy to break him, there are *reasons* he's running, reasons he left Cheyenne, but he can't remember a single one, not faced with this, not with his fingers going numb and burning, endless pain.

A single, sharp sound cuts through the fog, and Rodney's vision clears as something heavy falls across his chest, his face damp--God, was he *crying*?--and everything's a bloody, painful haze, even as the heaviness is rolled off him and a hand cups his cheek.

He doesn't dare open his eyes, even as a thumb rubs gently across his skin. "Rodney? Shh, everything's okay. It's okay, I'm here." A shift of the mattress, and something scratchy rubs across his face, before gentle fingers touch his arm. He flinches, can't help it, and the fingers withdraw. "Don't move, Rodney. Just--don't open your eyes, don't move, don't--" The voice breaks off, murmuring something that Rodney can't understand, but it's John, so he honestly doesn't care. "I'll be right back."

He doesn't want to open his eyes. That way leads to water-stained ceilings and crappy motels, not his home in Colorado, not his labs in Cheyenne and Arizona, a room where something large and unmoving is laying beside him, and his arm aches and he can taste blood.

After a few seconds, something soft and warm is pressed to his arm, and something else, scratchy and damp, begins to stroke over his face, smelling of clean water and cheap soap, but nothing will ever wipe away the smell of blood, his own and someone else's, he'll always smell it, always remember.

"Rodney? You here with me?" The cloth pulls away, and Rodney's vaguely aware that John's smearing something on his arm, thick and medical-smelling, then the soft pad of cloth. "Open your eyes, Rodney."

Against his will, his eyes open, and John swims into blurry view, tearing tape with his teeth. There's a smear of blood on his cheek, eyes dark and bruised looking. When he sees Rodney looking at him, though, he smiles, huge and relieved and terrified all at once. "Hey."

Rodney swallows, tries to form words. Nothing comes out.

"Shh. Don't. Just let me finish this." He takes the strip of tape, and when Rodney turns his head, a really professional looking bandage is covering the cut. A long cut, by the look of the bandage, and nausea rises sweet to the back of his tongue.

Before he can even think to control it, he's leaning over, arm burning from the sudden movement, throwing up on the floor.

John's hands hold his head, murmuring something in his ear--Rodney doesn't know what it is, can't even care, just goes with his body's betrayal, the same way he went with the betrayal of his mind when he told what he can't ever, ever tell, coffee flavored bile coating the floor and he can smell it on himself, on John, too, as powerful as the blood and just as indelible. John's arms are around him, bracing him through every spasm, gentle and careful and cool, as welcome as rain in the desert.

Long minutes later, John coaxes him back down. Turning his head, Rodney looks at the dead body beside him on the bed. He's too tired to care. "Who--"

"Kolya," John says flatly. Something in his voice forebears comment, and Rodney just nods as John stands up, going to the bathroom. The sound of water running, and Rodney turns his head enough to see John picking up the knife.

His stomach rolls over, but there's nothing left. John glances at him, then turns away, dropping it into a garbage bag that materializes from somewhere in the room. "How do you feel? Better?"

Rodney does a wary internal inventory, then nods. He doesn't trust his voice yet. He might never trust it again.

"Good." Shying past the vomit on the floor, John crawls across the bed, and under Rodney's surprised eyes, he begins a quick, thorough search of the body. The dark head flops over, glazed open eyes staring at Rodney, and Rodney could almost believe the man was still there, that any second, he'd have the knife against Rodney's throat, and Rodney would be telling him anything he wanted to hear. A set of car keys, several guns, what looks like a kitchen's worth of knives, a wallet, and a thick bundle of papers make a messy stack beside Rodney's hip. "Okay, I know--" John stops short, looking up from his crouch over Kolya's body. "I need you to take the keys and go to his car. It's the blue sedan. Get in, start the car. Can you do that?"

Rodney blinks slowly. "I--" 

"I need you to do this, okay? I'll be out in just a second." John holds his eyes, like he's willing Rodney to respond. "I need you to do this. Take the keys, grab your stuff, go to the car, start it up. I'll only be a few minutes. Can you do that?"

Slowly, carefully, Rodney sits up. It seems wrong somehow that he *can*, that he can pick up his bag from the foot of the bed, keys jangling discordantly in one hand, that he can calmly walk to the door and go out, into a dark Arizona/Nevada/who the hell knows where they are night, and get in the driver's side of the unlocked car, start it up.

He stares out the front windshield, watching John carry out garbage bags, one bulky and strangely shaped, not quite the shape of a man anymore. John makes three trips, neatly stowing the--bags--in the passenger side of the Lamborghini, then coming over with, of all things, two bags of take-out and duffle bag, opening the backdoor to put them in beside Rodney's laptop and bag. "Follow me." John's mouth is a tight, straight line, and this time, it's not a request.

Rodney nods shortly, almost relieved. "Okay."

John holds his eyes for a second, then nods shortly. Stepping back, he shuts the door and Rodney watches him stalk to the other car--there's no other word for it, nothing casual, nothing amused, nothing light now in the slim body, and God, Rodney thinks, God. Not incompetent at all. 

He follows John for thirty miles, mind blank--it's just easier to *do*, not think. When John pulls off the road, arrowing out into the desert, Rodney turns obediently, and when John stops, he stops too.

John opens Rodney's door. "Get out and strip."

His mind tries to come online--why?--but Rodney ruthlessly suppresses any hint of rational thought. Turning the car off, he gets out, methodically removing shirt and jeans under John's impersonal eye, trying not to wince with each jar of his injured arm.

John tosses a pile of unfamiliar clothes on the hood of the car. "Get dressed and wait. Don't do anything else, okay?" Picking up Rodney's clothes, he turns away, back to the Lamborghini, opening the driver's side door to toss them inside. Mechanically, Rodney pulls on the t-shirt, the jeans, doesn't even *wonder* why they fit. When he leans against the side of the car to pull on the cross-trainers, he looks up to see John pulling on a fresh shirt, jeans still unbuttoned, and circling the car, carrying a can. 

The wind brings the smell across the desert, cutting through blood and vomit and fear and blank acceptance. He's moving before he's decided to, and he's reaching for John's arm. His skin's cold and clammy under Rodney's hand. "Stop."

It's a completely unfamiliar man that looks back at him, and Rodney forces himself not to jerk back. "I need to--"

"I know." Swallowing, Rodney keeps his gaze trained away from the windshield, the piled bags. "But if you want--hard to ID, right?"

John looks at him, then nods slowly.

"Open up the hood. You need something hotter than--" Rodney's mind shies again. Cremation temperatures aren't easy to get outside an oven, but-- "I can make it--"

John's mouth tightens. "Rodney--"

"He tried to kill me. I'm not feeling a lot of regret that he's going to burn out here." Slowly, Rodney reaches for the can. A second's hesitation, then John lets go. "Get the hood up. I can--we can do this right."

* * *

Five miles away, Rodney looks back. Through the rear window, the fire is brilliant in the night, like it might burn forever.

He wishes that it could.

* * *

They're going east now, not north, crossing the border into southern Utah when Rodney thinks to look around. Rodney thinks he asked why, and maybe John even gave him an answer, but he doesn't remember a single word of it.

John stops them twice at convenience stores, taking something small and white from a bottle when he goes to the bathroom at the second place. Rodney, faking sleep in the passenger side, narrows his eyes at that. He'd been wondering how John was going to function on no sleep for almost forty-eight hours, and now he had his answer.

John hasn't talked much--at all, really, but Rodney can feel every time the hazel eyes fix on his arm. When he gets back in, Rodney gives up faking sleep. "I can drive."

John snorts, and he almost seems like the guy before Kolya. Rodney wonders suddenly which one is real, this one, or that one? "Your driving record is terrible."

Rodney's almost offended--American driving laws can be ridiculous, and he swears that one cop was out to get him, asshole--but then just shakes his head. "And taking speed is safer?"

John's head tilts. "Doctor prescribed. I have a friend. He--helps me out when I need something." The dark eyes are almost amused. "But thank you for your concern."

"I just don't want to die a fiery death in the middle of the highway because you're high on narcotics." It take a second for the words to penetrate, but they hit them both at the same time. John's in the driver's seat, close enough to touch, but he might as well be in Siberia, and the steady, cool hand that reaches for the keys remind Rodney of the steady hands that searched Kolya in the room, that held the gun that killed him.

It--should bother him, and Rodney gives himself a second to work out if it does. "John--"

"That wasn't supposed to happen." John's voice is as blank as a new sheet of paper. "I didn't think he could keep up."

Rodney licks his lips. "He--you knew--"

"The Genii picked up the contract within seconds of the offer." John's voice is so steady, so casual, it's almost like contract isn't the equivalent of Rodney's life. "I knew they were following you, but I didn't think they'd get so close so fast." Dark lashes sweep down, hiding the expression in his eyes. "I'm not letting you out of my sight again."

Rodney tries and fails to find that ominous. John and his gun are rapidly becoming some of his favorite things. "He--"

"He wanted information, didn't he?" John's eyes flicker to Rodney's arm, then away. "So he--"

"Yeah." And in that word, Rodney lets the anger show--anger and fear and knowing, *knowing* that he'd tell again, if that knife was against his skin, if Kolya was there right now, that nothing, not his ethics, not his promise, not even the memory of Cheyenne, could stop him from telling everything he knew. 

John's silent for a stretch of dusty miles. "Everyone breaks."

Rodney snorts. "Everyone--"

"Everyone breaks, with the right inducement." John's eyes don't leave the road. "It's not a question of if. It's just a question of when." His hands tighten on the wheel. "It won't--it--" And like that, the hard voice just *stops*. "I shouldn't have left you alone. I know better than that."

Rodney's head snaps around. "Do you--are you feeling *guilty*?" Because that will just cap the surreality of his life to date--his not-so-incompetent assassin is feeling *bad* another assassin got to him.

John keeps his gaze on the road, for all the world like he didn't hear a word Rodney said. The uncomfortable silence just goes on, to the point where talking would be just as uncomfortable and almost not worth the effort of trying.

"I could have left you there," Rodney hears himself say, the first thing that pops into his head, and the car veers sharply right. Okay, getting in an accident? Not on the agenda.

But John keeps veering, running them right off the road and coming to a sharp stop. "What?"

"Out there. I could have just driven away and left you there." Though he hadn't, it hadn't even *occurred* to him, and that's just weird enough for Rodney to rewind and study for a second. "I--didn't, you know."

"Why didn't you?" Now curiosity, as obvious as the sun in the sky, as obvious as the fingers wrapped so tight around the steering wheel that the knuckles are white.

Rodney opens his mouth, then shuts it tight, and it's like they're standing by that burning car all over again, and Rodney thinks, that changed him. Kolya had, a knife had, but more than that, sitting on the edge of a Lamborghini Diablo to create a crematorium with a high grade engine, gasoline, and a match to cover a murder--that changed him. He can feel the heat on his skin, the shock of waking up from the blood and pain and fear and anger, the moment that transitioned him. He'd thought the worst they could do was kill him. It's not. The worst thing they can do is keep him alive.

The worst that could happen, they could keep him alive, and he doesn't have any illusion left on what will happen between the time they take him and the time they finally let him die. He might be begging for it then.

"I can't--" Rodney stops. "I can't let them catch me. And I don't know how to make sure that doesn't happen."

He can hear John breathing beside him, slow and steady, doesn't dare look. It's almost too much for him. He doesn't want to know what John is thinking. "I don't know--why you didn't kill me. Why you are protecting me. I don't even know if you're lying about not selling me to whoever offers you the most money. But you're--you're the only thing standing between me and--" Rodney shuts his eyes. "What I know--what they want, if you--they can't ever find out. Even if I have to be dead to make sure they don't."

John's breath catches. "I won't let that happen."

Rodney keeps his gaze on the road. He has no idea if he can say this and mean it if he looks at John. "I mean--if they catch me--"

"It *won't happen*." John's voice is fierce, and they're back in the desert, John as far away as the closest star. "Rodney. Look at me."

He can't stop himself from responding to the command in that voice; his head turns, and John's hand is cool and dry on his face, callused thumb rubbing a line across his cheek, like he's wiping Kolya's blood away all over again. "They won't catch you. And you aren't going to die. I won't let that happen."

Rodney can't even blink. "Why?"

And John smiles. It's the familiar one, the bright one, the cocky, casual, easy one, brighter than a desert fire, lighting up the car more than the sun outside, pushing into all the dark spaces that Kolya had made in his mind, sweeping them clean. "You can trust me, Rodney. I won't let anyone hurt you again."

Rodney looks at that smile, those wide, honest eyes, the shape of a fate he's never believed in before now, and he believes him. 

* * *

Rodney flips open the laptop on the bed, Chinese takeout by his elbow, coffee on the bedside table, stretching out the kinks in his back. "The Atlantis project."

From across the room, he can hear John's footsteps stop. "What?"

Rodney pulls open the document, feeling John cross the room on silent feet, the dip in the bed. "What do you know about it? I'm guessing that getting the name alone was hard enough--getting the actual information on the project--"

"You did a good job in Cheyenne. The computers that aren't in pieces are wiped clean." John sounds impressed. Rodney makes himself not preen a little--because yes, it had been good work. Brilliant work, even. "So no, not much. But lots of mention of alternate power sources."

Rodney flicks a key. Over his shoulder, he can feel John's gaze, sharp on the fast scroll of equations. "The Atlantis project was a search for alternate power sources. We tried everything, and then we tried things that weren't actually possible. Then we just said to hell with it and started making things up as we went along." Rodney smiles at the memory of Kavanagh at every staff meeting, face red, accusing Rodney of being a science fiction author, not a scientist, right up until the day everything clicked. "We were looking for cold fusion."

John leans against Rodney's hip, and Rodney tries to ignore the warmth of him, the casual sprawl that lets a hand rest on his back, hot and distracting. "Cold fusion?" John's voice drops. "You found--"

"No." Rodney flicks the touchpad, and he feels John go still beside him. "We found something better." For a second, he almost wonders why on earth he's showing John this, but he pushes it away, concentrating on the screen. "When I was working at MIT, I was running simulations, years ago. My specialty is--"

"Theoretical astrophysics." John's voice is hushed, and Rodney almost turns around, because there's something in John's voice that Rodney's heard only once before--his own voice, that perfect day when it came together. When everything *clicked* into place

"When the government recruited me to Cheyenne, I finally had the funds to explore it, more than I could even in MIT's labs. They didn't care about my side projects as long as I kept working on their frankly ridiculous fusion theories." Staring at the numbers, Rodney reads his past in perfect, black and white lines. The knowledge of something out there, just beyond the reach of his fingers, beyond the scope of his mind unless he learned to think outside everything he'd ever known. "Properties of subspace particles. And then--" He stops, trying to think of how to put it. "I ran my simulations and then it just--"

"Clicked."

Rodney flicks a key again, and brings up one more file. "The rest, the math? That's nothing. Not compared to this."

Damp black hair brushes his cheek, and Rodney can smell the shampoo, the soap and shaving cream on John's skin, the warmth of him beneath, and he has to force himself not to lean into it. "What is it?" John whispers, and Rodney hears the awe, and he knows John knows exactly what these schematics represent, even if he doesn't know what they are.

"It's a ZedPM, zero point module." Rodney hears the awe in his own voice and can't even bother himself to hide it. "The only schematics in existence for a power source that will change the world. It makes nuclear power look like a nine volt battery."

John goes still beside him. "Unlimited power?"

"Almost. Easily rechargeable, if you know how." It's like the first time all over again, knowing what he'd done, what he'd created, and the hugeness shocks him silent for a long second. "Not easy to create, but I can do it." Rodney hesitates, staring at the awkward cylinder for a few long, painful seconds. "And the single most powerful weapon in the universe, to whoever gets it."

John stiffens against him, then relaxes. The hand on Rodney's back clenches in his shirt. "Yes."

Rodney touches a key, watching the slow one hundred and eighty degree turn, a lifetime's achievement--more than a Nobel prize, the acclamation of his peers, his name in the history books; the culmination of everything Rodney McKay was or could ever be, right here and right now. The greatest discovery of mankind since fucking *fire*. "I created it," Rodney says, and his voice is so low, he can barely hear himself. "I created it and then I showed them, and then I found out what they'd do with it. And I destroyed everything I did, ten years of research, I stripped MIT of everything I'd left there, and I ran. And I don't know why I kept this--" He does. He knows why he still has it, why he kept it, why he can't quite bear to let it go. "It's worth dying for, isn't it?"

John's voice is as quiet, as awed, as his own. "Yes. It is."

* * *

They stay like that, after Rodney locks down his computer, John leaning against his back, Rodney stretched on the bed, too tired to move, or maybe too thoughtful. John's fingers trace patterns on his back that he's too tired to try and work out, but they seem familiar, like something he should know. 

John's voice is quiet. "In Cheyenne? You did good, you know. There were almost no casualties."

Rodney closes his eyes. "Almost." Collins and Gaul, Abrams, a couple of others, had tried to the end to defuse Rodney's explosives, and he should have known, should have guessed they'd try, should have warned them, locked them in their apartments, something. But the ZPM was worth dying for, and they'd proved it, they'd died trying to save Cheyenne's empty computers and destroyed labs while Rodney McKay drove through New Mexico in a stolen car and pretended he hadn't left his colleagues to die. They hadn't known what he was trying to do; he could have told them, and he hadn't. He hadn't trusted them with this, with himself, not with everything in the balance.

John slides to the bed beside him, eyes dark. "Rodney--"

"You killed people?" Rodney chokes on the words. "So have I."

John's hand is warm on his face, thumb pressed to his cheek, warm and solid and sure. "You couldn't stop them. The only thing you could do is what you did."

"Tell that to their families." Though the scientists chosen for Cheyenne didn't often have families, and that should have told him something about the research. He thinks of Samantha Carter in that last briefing, her anger and frustration and bewilderment. Why, Rodney. We need this. It will change the world.

Just in no way that Rodney could accept, not in a way that could let him face himself in the mirror in the morning. He remembers his tiny bathroom, staring at himself, half-shaved, half-awake, and how it had slid together, almost inevitable, almost something *decided* before he even knew he'd made the decision. What they wanted to do with his wonderful, universe-shaking discovery, what he'd created for them, with them, what was waiting for him. What they'd ask him to do with it.

What else they'd have him create in his well-lighted, state of the art lab, what he'd make of his discovery, and he'd put down his razor and washed his face and made a plan in under an hour and carried it out without a flinch.

He doesn't even realize he's shaking until he feels John--all of John, arms tight around him, chin in his hair, hands warm and gentle on his back--and John's warm and solid and he holds on because he has no idea what else he can do.

John's voice is soft in his ear. "They would have destroyed everything with it. People. The planet. Hell, maybe the entire solar system. You did what you had to."

Rodney nods, because he knows that, and it doesn't change a goddamn thing.

* * *

It's dusk when Rodney wakes up--the cheap blackout blinds still let in enough light to bathe the room in steel grey. His back aches, and he's too warm, but he can't make himself pry free of John's equally sweaty skin. His hands don't know what to do--one resting on the small of his back, the other tight clenched in the front of his shirt, like maybe he was worried John would get away while he was sleeping.

Maybe.

Rodney lets go of the shirt, pushing himself up on one elbow, careful not to dislodge John, but he rolls over onto his back anyway, and Rodney follows to keep contact with that smooth, sweaty skin on his back, not able to let go.

Sleeping, John's amazing--sharp features and expressive eyebrows now still, mouth soft and pink, more like a college student on a long weekend than a hired thug. Attractive. Pretty, if Rodney could bend his mind enough to apply it to a guy, but close enough. Hard and soft and strangely vulnerable, gun still strapped to one thigh, probably weapons hidden all over his person, unable to be seen by the layman. 

Rodney slowly pulls his hand away, careful not to dislodge John's arm, still hooked around his back, and runs a curious palm over his chest. Through the soft, sweat-dampened cotton, he can feel the slow beat of John's heart.

It's night, and they should be moving, if John's pattern of day sleeping is supposed to continue. Reluctantly, Rodney starts to pull away. "John--"

A blur follows. 

He's flat on his back and John is straddling him, a knife at his throat, cold eyes staring down into his like a stranger. From dead asleep to homicidal in under three seconds. Rodney's not sure if he's supposed to be afraid, even when the knife brushes his skin.

Then it jerks back. "Rodney," John breathes, and he materializes at the foot of the bed on his own feet, looking sick. "Shit. I--" He stops, licking his lips, then looks down at the knife in his hand and drops it, like something filthy. "I'm sorry. God, I--"

Cold eyed nothing. The college student on spring break breaks through like the sun from behind a cloud. Rodney sits up, feeling dizzy. "No, it's okay, I shouldn't have startled you. Though you don't get laid much, do you? Cause reflexes like that would, well, be awkward, to say the least."

John blinks at him for a second, and his mouth snaps shut. "I--I could have--I mean, by accident--I don't usually--" He stops short, maybe like he's aware he sounds like an idiot. Rodney can't help grinning, and John's expression changes, confusion and irritation in equal measure. "You aren't--well. You know. Upset?"

He's not, and Rodney can't explain it. "I'd like something to eat before we leave. And I could live without being, you know, threatened by your subconscious, but. Sure. Why not?"

John shakes his head slowly. "You are--I never read anything in your file about being crazy," he says, slowly, and he leans down, picking up the knife, but reluctantly, pocketing it somewhere on his person. Rodney wonders if there's any chance he'll ever find all the places John hides weapons on his body, then wonders if maybe the shock this morning's somehow caused a dip toward the not-so-sane. "Yeah. Um, yeah, let's get you fed before you get grumpy." John hesitates as he turns to the bathroom. "Um, we need to change cars today. So, pack everything up together."

Rodney nods serenely as John goes to the shower, still eyeing Rodney worriedly over his shoulder every few seconds, like he's expecting incipient hysteria to break out at any time.

When the door closes, Rodney has to cover his head to make sure John doesn't hear him laugh.

* * *

John's been taking a less than direct route across Utah to get back into Nevada, and once back in, a twisting southward direction that may have something to do with being followed, but also could be because John's avoiding military installations, especially the ones that, by rights, he should know nothing about.

It's coming on dusk, and they're getting close to the Mexican border, in which case, Rodney assumes John either has a.) contacts ready to take Rodney and pay up, or b.) some kind of a plan in place to get them somewhere else.

He's curiously uncurious. John doesn't interrupt him working and supplies him with coffee, and actually pretends to understand when Rodney talks about what he's working on, like he can actually comprehend particle physics, linear math, and the concept of vacuum being used to power a world.

"We're about ready to stop," John says, Rodney looks up, seeing the city limits of Tucson, Arizona pass them by. Also.

"It's night."

John shrugs. "We're close enough to the border to get some sleep before dawn." And John looks a little ragged around the edges, like a grad student at midterms, and it's beginning to really bother Rodney, the college comparisons. Like his mind's trying to tell him something.

"Where did you go to school?"

John gives him a patently fake bewildered look. "Who says I did? Who says I even graduated *high school*?"

Rodney snorts. "You're less of an idiot than some people I've *worked* with. So nice try."

John shrugs, beginning to turn, and Rodney views the inspiring sight of a LaQuinta, which is a serious step up from where they've been staying, and also? Continental breakfast and coffee. "Wow, I'm impressed," he says, but he's thinking of in-room coffee pots. "This doesn't look like a place I can also pick up a hooker for under ten dollars. Are you sure we're in the right place?"

John grins at him. "I thought I'd treat you, for being such a great hostage and all."

Rodney shuts down his laptop and puts it in its case. "Your first?"

From the corner of his eye, he catches John's lopsided grin. "You know? I kind of think you are. Come on, lets get checked in and order room service. I'm starving."

Rodney can count on one finger the number of times John has actually *said* he was hungry over the last few days. John doesn't *eat*. John possibly absorbs nutrition from the air or something. "Really?"

John nods, tossing the keys before stuffing them in his pocket. "Grab our stuff and meet me in the lobby," he says, grabbing one of his bags.

"These are heavy!" Rodney says, but he sighs and does it anyway, because John's already whistling loud enough not to hear Rodney and going through the doors. With a sigh, Rodney stacks his duffle and John's other, swinging his backpack over his shoulder and wondering if LaQuinta even *has* room service. If it doesn't, it should. It really, really should.

* * *

When he comes in the room, John's already sprawled on one of the wide double beds, looking like vaguely pre-orgasmic from the cool air, shirt rucked up to reveal long inches of golden skin. The lights are low, just a desk lamp, and from their window, Rodney can see the entire city.

Sitting their bags down, Rodney perches on the foot of the other bed, watching until John's eyes open. He looks a little sheepish, but Rodney waves him off when he makes motions like he might want to get up. "Don't bother. I can use a phone and order food."

John falls back on the bed. "You're a real friend, Rodney."

Rodney snorts, waiting until John's eyes close before he lets himself just look. He's usually too exhausted by the time they arrive anywhere to appreciate just how--how *pretty* John is. Eyes closed, at rest, he's worth the humiliation of getting caught, just to get the chance to take him in. 

It's not like Rodney's had a lot of time around exceedingly hot people before now. Picking up the phone, he picks up a takeout menu from one of the drawers, and pizza sounds good. "Pizza okay?"

John nods sleepily, hands folded over his stomach, head turned toward the darkening sky outside, looking more relaxed than Rodney's ever seen him before, and he doesn't want to disturb him again. Rodney goes for a safe and orders pepperoni, only waking him up to get cash from his jeans pocket, John mumbling in sleepy complaint until Rodney leaves him alone.

The wait between the order and the arrival, however--*thirty minutes*--is a damn long time to sit and stare, though. He's beginning to creep himself out. 

By the time the pizza arrives, Rodney feels like a very, very pathetic stalker.

Leaving the three boxes on the desk, he hesitates, but food is food and John stated hunger, therefore, he should be woken up to enjoy it before it goes cold. Not that there's anything wrong with cold pizza--the preferred breakfast of cranky scientists everywhere--but still. Leaning over, Rodney reaches out carefully, remembering the last sudden awakening, barely brushing John's shoulder. "John. Food. Up."

John makes a soft noise, eyes flickering open, shining in the dark, staring up at Rodney with utter focus. He's never had anyone look at him like that in his life, like he's the only person in the world. "John."

It's just like last time, except for everything. Fast enough to take his breath and feel the first strains of inertia-related nausea, before the bed is soft beneath his back--God, a decent mattress like a miracle from God--and John, straddling him, but arms braced on either side of his head, staring at him--no, staring at his mouth.

Oh, God. "You said," and Rodney's voice goes up an octave before he forces it back down from sheer humiliation, but seriously, my *God*. "I thought you said this wasn't a porn movie."

John grins, pressing down, and Rodney arches into the pressure against his cock, feels John's too, and he's been like this how long? All on their own, his hands move, palming long thighs through denim, and John's mouth curves up in a lopsided smile before he leans down and kisses Rodney.

Kissing, with tongue, with lips and teeth and gentle hands on his face, rubbing up against him like a cat, and Rodney wonders if he's hallucinating, because this is a porn movie, but a good one, a really great one, the best *ever*, where the assassin falls for the victim and they have fantastic, sweaty sex, like, now, and he's all for that one. He gets a hand in John's hair, holding his mouth, reaching between them to press a hand against John's cock, swallowing his gasp before setting a foot in the bed and rolling them over.

John pulls away with a grin, lips red and wet. "Not bad for a lab rat." Then the hazel eyes go exceedingly green when Rodney unzips his jeans, peeling them back. "In fact, really, really great. Really--"

"Great, yeah, got that part." John's hard through his--striped boxers? Heh--hot and hard and Rodney wants to touch him, taste him, strip him naked, find all his weapons by touch and then lick the places they were hidden. Sitting up, he grins at John's low moan, urging him up with bites at soft pink lips, reaching down to grab the t-shirt and pull it up over his head.

And yes, concealed weapons, a knife at the small of his back, that Rodney brushes with his tongue, licking away the cooled sweat, and another in his boot, a tiny gun on one ankle, where Rodney leaves the impression of teeth. The gun at his thigh, which Rodney knocks John's hand away and awkwardly unbuckles himself before pulling down jeans and boxers together, pressing his lips to the skin beneath. Impossibly soft skin on his back, interesting and inexplicable scars over his shoulder blades, and silky hair over his chest, wherever Rodney touches. Tiny pink nipples that harden at the curious brush of his fingers, and John never stops making sounds, senseless words, low and encouraging and hopeful and desperate all at once.

They're both sweating, the cool air raising goosebumps everywhere, every slide of their cocks together making them both groan, so good. John pushes him over on his back, holding him against the mattress with strong hands, mouth at his throat, licking patterns Rodney can't follow, thrusting against him, and it's never been this good, this much, Rodney can't think, can barely move enough to press his hands to the sweat-slick back above him and hold on, thrust up against John and arch into the sharp teeth in his shoulder when John comes, with a sound that Rodney doesn't think he's ever heard before. Then John's hand is between them, wrapped around Rodney's cock, slick with come and sweat, tight and perfect, God, yes, and Rodney gasps once and comes, hard enough to see stars. To see *galaxies*.

John doesn't bother trying to move away, and maybe Rodney has something to do with that, arms tight around him, still shaking with tiny aftershocks like electricity with every shift of their bodies. John's breath puffs into his throat, slowing with his heart, finally shifting enough to slide off Rodney but not move away.

Sweaty hair brushes Rodney's cheek as John raises his head from Rodney's shoulder, stubbled and red-cheeked, mouth wet and bruised, red marks on his throat and peering from the golden skin of his shoulders. He looks like sex. Smells like sex. Feels like every single thing that Rodney hadn't known he'd been starving for. He's getting hard again already, just looking at him.

"That was--" John stops, then grins, leaning close to brush another kiss against Rodney's mouth. "Yeah."

Rodney grins, pulling John down, tangling his fingers in sticky, fine hair that clings to his hands like John does to his body, and he's hard like he hasn't come today, hasn't come in weeks, and John's moving restlessly against his thigh, catching up fast.

Then there's a completely unsexy noise and John stops, looking down at Rodney, a grin lighting up his face, oh God, that *look*. He could live forever on that look, on someone looking at him like that, *John* looking at him like that. Then John raises an eyebrow. "Hungry?"

God, yes, but also-- "Yeah." They'll need the food for the energy for the sex. For all the wonderful, mindblowing sex that's going to happen tonight, in this bed, and maybe in the shower and against the closet wall. Rodney hasn't had good sex in--God, months, *years*. He's going to enjoy every second.

John glances back at the desk. "Pizza. Right. Hold on." Sliding out of bed, he's utterly incredible in the dim light from the lamp, golden and lean and so perfect it makes Rodney's throat close over, because God. Wow. Leaning over--and Rodney has to suck in a breath watching *that*--John grabs his boxers from the floor, pulling them up absently, then crossing to the desk and opening a box, peering inside.

That's when the door slams open and Rodney sees John automatically go to his gun before he realizes that it's not there. That's okay--Rodney has it, pointed at the guy who is pointing a gun at John.

Rodney remembers, belatedly, that he's never held a gun before today.

"Ronon," John says blankly, hands out to his side, showing no weapons. "Long time, no see."

The man comes in, gun darting between Rodney and John, then nods sharply. "Sheppard."

Rodney's head jerks around. Sheppard. That's--familiar? "Who are you?" Rodney asks, and his voice sounds good, strong and firm and everything, but his stomach's this close to giving up every drop of coffee he's drunk in the last week.

Ronon takes them in, hell, he can probably smell it in the room, dark face suddenly splitting in a grin. "I should have known." His eyes go back to John. "General O'Neill was wondering why you were taking so long."

General O'Neill. "Government. Air Force. You're *Air Force*." He's so--so *stupid*. That's how he knew about the Atlantis Project. That's how--

John looks between them. "I resigned a year ago, and Ronon knows it." His eyes flicker back to Ronon. "What, your handlers get bored holding you back?"

Ronon grins, all sharp teeth, and the click of a safety breaks the quiet. "He heard you picked up the contract and wanted to see how you were doing on your own." Dark eyebrows arch ironically. "Not bad. Decided the Russians were giving the best deal?"

Rodney forces his gun not to shake. Ronon sees it, though, and his grin widens. "What did you tell him? That you were protecting him? He believed you? They always do, don't they, Sheppard?" His voice implies things that make Rodney sick to think about. "We're still offering more for him. And I really don't want to kill you."

"I can't say the same," John says slowly. "Rodney--"

"Please. You think he's going to believe you now? Hand him over. General O'Neill always keeps his promises." 

"Promises?" Despite himself, Rodney has to know. "What did he promise John--Sheppard?"

Ronon smirks. "His commission and a grade jump. No more black mark. His choice of assignments. And enough money to retire on when he gets bored with the Air Force." The smirk widens. "Everything you wanted before you got that black mark, Sheppard."

John swallows, and it's like confirmation. Rodney stomach drops. "You said--"

"I told you I was hired by the government," John says steadily, eyes still in Ronon. "And that I wasn't doing it for money. But I wasn't following you for them, either."

Rodney wonders if he could just shoot them both--a weirdly possible thought, that he could shoot two men in cold blood like that, but there's nothing cold in how he feels right now. "You said--"

"And I said I'd protect you." John's eyes flicker to him, dark and frighteningly blank. "Ten years ago. You were guest lecturing for Dr. Zelenka, and after class, I went to talk to you--"

Rodney blinks. "You--" There's only one lecture he ever did for Zelenka--smart asshole with a seriously skewed view of particle theory--

"You were in Dr. Zelenka's office and you had read my thesis and you told him--"

*Sheppard*.

Oh. *God*. "What a waste for the student who wrote that to be in the Air Force. That was--that was *you*?" He can remember that--and Zelenka, looking over the edge of his glasses, startled when he looked over Rodney's shoulder, standing up, but when Rodney turned around, no one had been there, a dark head vanishing down the hall. "You *heard that*?" Some kind of weird, long range revenge on top of money? It's not a porn movie--his life has become a *soap opera*. 

God, he needs Tylenol, like, *now*.

John almost smiles. "Dr. Rodney McKay liked my thesis. And was an asshole about it. After I--after I resigned, I figured I'd find you and one, call you an asshole and two, tell you that you were right."

John's talking faster now, but he's also inching toward the desk and the pizza again. He can't possibly think to eat at a time like this, so. "So I went to see Zelenka, but he was gone." The hazel eyes darken abruptly. "Dr. Grodin was reported missing and his body found in a dumpster. Dr. Simpson just vanished off the face of the earth. And suddenly, it was like you'd stopped existing. Every person who had been in on that mystery project in Colorado was missing or dead, and I wanted to know why."

John stops, taking a breath, moving that hair closer to the desk. "I accepted the contract to get you *out*. I'm not selling you to anyone, Rodney. I'm not. I didn't accept the contract for money. I accepted it for *you*."

Ronon laughs softly. "Sheppard, that isn't your best work."

It's--not. "I can't--" Believe that. I can't *not*. John on one side, the Mexican border only miles away, Ronon on the other and everything he's run from. The United States government or John Sheppard, who either is going to sell him or save him, and he has no idea--no *clue*.

"You don't buy that shit, do you, McKay?" Ronon says, and he can feel the shift of attention to him, from Sheppard. The gun never wavers from John's chest, though. "What do you think Sheppard's employers will do to you to get what you know? We don't want you dead, we want--"

"Everything he knows." John's voice is tight. "Rodney, don't trust me, fine, but don't trust him, either. You were right to run, you were right to destroy everything. You were right. This is worth dying for."

It's like fate, or like a decision he hadn't even known he'd already made. Ronon's eyes go to John, bright and hungry, and Rodney thinks he can see the finger on the trigger squeeze. There's a sharp sound, and a body hitting the floor, but Rodney's the one lowering the gun, and John is staring at Ronon's body with wide, shocked eyes.

When John looks at him, he sees the utter bewilderment. "Rodney--"

"Where are we going?" His voice is frighteningly calm. "Can we still get there?"

John takes a step, then stops. "Rodney."

John's gun falls from suddenly numb fingers. It's nothing like knowing what happened in Cheyenne, because knowing a death count and seeing the body are two entirely different things. Later, he'll freak out about it. Much later. "Can we still--get there?"

Slowly, John walks to the bed, dropping at the foot, a less dressed version of the man he first met--no, the one he met *again* a few days ago, and he'd smile if he wasn't so close to a nervous breakdown right here and right now. "Yes." A shaking hand covers his perfectly still ones, long fine fingers curling through his own, lacing them together. "We'll drive all night if we have to. But we'll get there."

Rodney tightens his fingers around John's, taking a deep breath. Freak out later. Leaving now. "We need to--"

"Go, yeah." A final squeeze, and then John gets up, dressing fast and dirty, hair a mess from Rodney's fingers, hickeys visible above the collar of his t-shirt. Then he stops, coming back to the bed, cupping Rodney's face and kissing him, and Rodney reaches up, needing the contact, warm and sure and safe. I believe you, Rodney tries to tell him with his mouth and his hands and his body. I trust you. I know you. I'll follow you anywhere. "We're going to Brazil," John says into his mouth. "There's a woman there, a former diplomat, Dr. Weir. She got Dr. Zelenka out, and some of the others. We're going to her. She's got a place, and she's got connections, and if you don't like it there, we'll go somewhere else. I'll take you anywhere you want to go." Another kiss, fast and messy and filled with something that's bigger than relief. "We'll go anywhere you want to go."

John pulls him to his feet, grinning, bright as the Arizona sun. Rodney can't help matching it, standing naked in the dark room, a dead body only feet away, but he hasn't felt hope like this in years. Decades.

Part of that incipient breakdown, he thinks a little hysterically, but he really doesn't care.

John's arms slide around him again, breath warm in his ear. "Let's go."

the end


End file.
